


I'm gonna be like you, ma

by cordsycords



Series: lies you tell your friends to prevent them from figuring out your depressing d&d backstory [3]
Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Campaign 02 (Critical Role), Family, Fluff, Gen, Mother-Son Relationship, OC death, Son who love their mothers are so pure, non-canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 04:52:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13516953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordsycords/pseuds/cordsycords
Summary: in which Mollymauk was telling the truth about his swords, and he was raised by his mother





	I'm gonna be like you, ma

He grows up in a little cabin by the sea, nestled among a community of his own kind. He spends his days as a child jumping from rock to rock of the haggard shoreline, balancing on unsteady feet and slippery surfaces as he investigates the numerous tidepool that accumulates when the water recedes. It’s a good life if a simple one. His mother is a seamstress, the only one in town, and on days when he’s not outside with the other kids his age, then he’s in with her, learning how to embroider garments with a still hand and an accurate eye.

 

Their home is a small one. There are only two rooms, one for living and the other for bathing. He shares the bed with his mother as a child until they finally purchase a second when he turns ten. There’s a dirty rug on the floor, cabinets for food, and a hearth to keep them warm during the winter. Every three days he takes a bath in a tub of seawater, with soap smelling of lavender and tea leaves.

 

A matching pair of dual scimitars hangs on the wall, gathering dust. They are the most precious things in the house, yet his mother never gives them a second thought when they’re running low on coin.

 

 

 

 

There are benefits to growing up with a lot of people who look like you. While lavender is a still an odd colour to be even among other tieflings, the process of horn-growing is almost as momentous as losing one’s last tooth. He spends hours comparing the bumps on his head to the other kids his age, swearing that his are growing faster than the others. He shows his mother every day, and she looks at them with a wry smile and vague assurances that he will grow up to be a handsome boy. She likes to braid string into his hair, threads of bright red and blue left over from her work.

 

He lets her do as she wishes, is happy when she’s happy, and while he sits he stares at the scimitars and wonders why his amicable and tranquil mother has a pair of swords hanging up in their house.

 

“Are they Da’s swords?” He asks as he sits cross-legged on the floor in front of her, stitching together a piece of embroidery as she braids his hair.

 

“Now why would you think that?” She asks, pausing her work.

 

“They gotta be someone’s swords. And I don’t know ‘im.”

 

She sighs, “Your father is a scoundrel, and a bastard, and many other things that aren’t very kind to say.”

 

“Then why are’ya saying them?”

 

“‘Cause I don’t want you chasing fantasies, little seabird. Those swords aren’t nothing special. Just old family heirlooms. Now out with you,” she pats him on the bottom, shooing him out the door, “Go play with the others, don’t be late.”

 

 

 

 

The fog rolls in off the ocean in early spring, covering the little village in a dense cloud of moisture. They play hide and seek out on the rocks, silent as they crouch and tiptoe around the person doing the seeking. It’s easy to get lost, to run too far away and not find your way back home until the sun begins to set and the fog recedes.

 

It’s his turn to find himself lost that day, and he somehow makes his way to a meadow north of the village. Frost still rests on the ground, soaking into his leather shoes and freezing his toes. He knows he should stay where he his, wait until the fog has dispersed to find his way back home, but a wanderlust had taken hold of him, forcing him to walk beyond the fog, further than meadow and the boundaries of his childhood world.

 

After walking for ten minutes, he’s confused to see the shape of houses in the distance, in the wrong direction to where he knows his home is supposed to be. Warnings from his mother rebound through his thoughts, but he presses on anyway, crouching down into the meadow grass.

 

With a closer look, he can see that these buildings clearly don’t belong to his village. They’re made of wood instead of stone, and the roofs are thatched with something he can’t recognize. His feet bring him forward without him asking them to, and suddenly he’s creeping around the back of one of the houses, looking around the corner to what seems to be a market of some sorts.

 

His mother told him of elves, dwarves, halflings, and humans, but he never thought they lived so _close_.

 

He rounds the back corner of the house, finally standing out in the open as he watches the humans walk around the square, interacting with each other. It’s odd to see people who are all the same colour, without horns or tails or full-coloured eyes. He stares in confusion, completely forgetting how exposed he his until a shout forces him to move.

 

“Monster!” A shrill-like voice sounds out. He jumps in his place, now staring at dozens of eyes that are staring right back at him. He doesn’t move until a rock goes sailing towards his head, hitting him right above the eye.

 

He scurries away, sprinting back to his home without looking back.

 

 

 

 

His mother gives him an earful when he gets back, applies some sort of antiseptic to his forehead to prevent infection, and tells him to suck it up when he winces at the sting.

 

“But you didn’t _say_ anything about not going beyond the meadow.”

 

“Because I thought you were smart enough not to go looking for trouble, Molly,” she hisses.

 

“I didn’t even _know_ they were there!” He argues, pressing a dressing to his wound, “How am I supposed to know not to do something if I don’t know what I’m not to do?”

 

She sighs, conceding his point. She then goes down to kneel in front him, kissing his forehead as she places her hands on his face, “Humans can be cruel folk, Mollymauk. Not all of them are bad, of course. But enough them. Enough of them to warrant keeping our distance. Staying together with all the others here.”

 

“Okay, ma.”

 

She nods, “Good boy. Now you’re not to go out-

 

“But ma-”

 

“You are _not_ to go out tomorrow, do I make myself clear?”

 

He hangs his head, “Yes.”

 

She takes him into her arms, “Thank you, my little seabird.”

 

 

 

 

The next day, he’s out with her in front of the house, using the noonday sun to their advantage as they get through the days work. He’s already got a sore on his finger from poking himself with a needle, and he sucks at it with his thumb when one of their neighbours comes running up to them.

 

“Siren,” she calls out to his mother, breathing heavy from running “They’re here. They’ve come for him, they’ve come for your boy.”

 

“Calm down, Nym. Who’s come?” His mother asks, standing up to calm her friend as she looks up the path towards the village.

 

“Men. From up north. They’re quite angry.” Nym whispers. It’s enough to send his mother back into the house, returning only seconds later with the scimitars hanging from her belt.

 

“Stay here, Molly,” she commands, running up the hill towards the village without a glance backwards, Nym running to catch up with her.

 

He doesn’t get a chance to argue against her wishes, but he isn’t going to listen to her anyway. You don’t spend your entire life in one place without learning how to get places you shouldn’t be going without being seen. Going up to the village the wrong way is less of a gentle walk up a stone path, and more of a frightful climb up a steep cliff, but he manages it easily enough. He sneaks between two buildings, crouching behind a wooden barrel so he won’t be seen as he watches what’s going on in the square.

 

He sees his mother, among several others, with the scimitars drawn at her side. One of them seems to be covered in ice, and he sees a trail of blood trickling it’s way down her arm and pooling on the dirt below her. There are three human males, one with a pitchfork.

 

“We had an agreement, half-breed. Your folk don’t come near us, and we stay kind to you.” One of the men says, looking oddly at her swords.

 

“And we’ve kept our part of that bargain,” his mother replies, her voice ringing throughout the village.

 

“That’s not what we’ve seen.”

 

His mother huffs, “He’s just a child. Not yet ten-years-old. He didn’t know any better.”

 

The man steps closer, and his mother brings her sword up in a warning, “Well we’d better not see him again. Or any of you, for that matter.”

 

“Of course, friend.” She agrees.

 

They leave, but the tension in the air doesn’t follow. Molly sprints back home, getting back before his mother does.

 

 

 

 

“Are your swords magic, ma?” He calls from the tub, scrubbing at his back with a dried sea sponge.

 

“You still going on about those?” She calls back from the other room.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Don’t forget to wash behind your horns.”

 

“Ma!” He shouts before washing behind his horns.

 

“Now, why would you think that they’re magic dear Mollymauk?”

 

“I saw you. Earlier today.” He admits. There’s also the bandage that’s wrapped around her upper-arm that goes unspoken.

 

She sighs, “Of course you did.” He can feel the disappointment coming in waves, but she doesn’t answer his question. He gets out of the bath, dries off, and changes into his sleeping clothes. When he appears in the doorway that separates the two rooms, he can his mother is already in bed, her back turned toward the rest of the room. He curls up next to her, staring at her back.

 

“What is it, little seabird.” She asks after a brief silence, turning over to look at him. Her fingers lift up to trail through his hair then tap along the side of his cheek.

 

“Why did they call us that?”

 

“What, dear Mollymauk?”

 

“Half-breed.” He whispers into the darkness. Her face turns sour.

 

“As I said, humans can be cruel. They look at the outward appearance of some and they make certain... judgements. But you shouldn’t listen to them, little seabird. You and I are very special, and they just don’t know it.”

 

“What d’you mean?”

 

“Those swords were my father’s swords. And his mother’s before him. And her mother’s before her. They’ve been passed down in our family for many many years.”

 

“And are they magic?”

 

She leans in closer, “Yes.”

 

“Woah.” He says, eyes growing wide at the revelation.

 

“Indeed,” she chuckles low under her breath, “You see, Molly, you and I are descended from a very important line of tiefling. The origin of our fiendish blood can be traced back to one ice demon, that lived inside of a volcano.”

 

“Really?”

 

She nods, “Really. Those swords were entrusted to the royal guard of this demon, who imbued them with magic that would make sure they would only activate with the blood of the royal guard.”

 

He muses over her words for a couple seconds, “That doesn’t sound real, ma.”

 

“No, I guess not. But I swear that it’s true,” She strokes the side of his cheek with the knuckle of her finger, “Now go to sleep, dear Mollymauk. No more questions now.”

 

She turns her back towards him.

 

“Can you teach _me_ to use them, ma?”

 

She sighs, but doesn’t answer. He goes to sleep without another word.

 

 

 

 

He doesn’t broach the topic for the next day, the next week, or even the next few years for that matter. The humans don’t come back to the village, and the swords stay hanging on the wall, gathering dust.

 

He’s sixteen and he wears his hair shorter than he did as a boy, too short for threads of string to be braided into it. So instead he sits behind his mother and braids her hair like she used to his, fingers steady and practiced from years of sewing and needlework.

 

“I hear Daimon needs a new apprentice. Town always needs a new blacksmith.”

 

“Of course, ma.” 

 

“Or fishing. Always a need for fishermen.”

 

“Indeed.”

 

“No, fishing’s not too bad either.”

 

He ties of the braid with bright yellow thread, a smile on his face as his mother rambles, “Neither is sewing, ma, or braiding a pretty lady’s hair.”

 

She laughs at his charm, “You spend too much time around your mother, dear Mollymauk.”

 

“That’s because I love my mother.”

 

“No changing the subject, little seabird.”

 

“I like sewing. I like working here, working with you.”

 

“Yes, but you _could_ do something else,” she explains.

 

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

 

“No just… encouraging you to expand your horizons, is all.”

 

“It sounds like your trying to get rid of me.”

 

“Molly,” she groans.

 

He chuckles, “It’s fine, ma, I’m just teasing. I’ll go see Daimon tomorrow, ask him if he needs any help.”

 

“Good boy.”

 

“Can I ask for something in return, then?”

 

“Sure, anything.”

 

“The swords, I want to learn to use’em.”

 

“The swords?”

 

“Aye.”

 

“It’s been six years.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You’ve been waiting on that for six years?”

 

He shrugs, “Needed a proper time to ask for’em, this seemed as good a time as any.”

 

“Are they _that_ important to you?”

 

“Well they are a family heirloom, ma,” he says.

 

“Molly.”

 

“Passed down the Tealeaf line for _generations_.”

 

“Mol-”

 

“And I’ve got to ask, were the royal guards in your story actually named _Tealeaf_ , ‘cause that seems like such an odd name to have. I was pretty sure that you just made it up.”

 

She turns around and reaches up to him, shushing him by placing her index finger against his lips, “Every other night, out by the rocks. You listen to what I say, no complaint, and you go to Daimon tomorrow and ask for a job, deal?”

 

He nods, smiling against her fingertip.

 

 

 

 

“I don’t see how this is helping me,” he complains, balancing on the tiptoe of his bare foot while ocean water sprays around him. The other foot is nestled behind the back of his knee. He holds two heavy-weighted sticks in his hands, trying not to move them around too much.

 

“Balance is the key,” his mother says while walking around him, correcting his form, “You won’t be doing any sword-twirling if you can’t stand on two feet.”

 

“I think I can stand just fine, ma.” He says.

 

Suddenly something hits him in the back, sending him to the ground as he yelps. A rough ocean wave comes tumbling over him, beating his body against the rocks. He gasps in the air, heaving as his mother quietly chuckles behind him.

 

 

 

 

He has bruises and cuts and sores and strains all over his body from training with the swords, and his three days a week apprenticing at the blacksmith isn’t helping anything. He collapses onto his bed in a huff, his mother at the hearth making stew.

 

“Are you tired, dear Mollymauk?” She asks.

 

He groans in response, curling in on himself in a way that doesn’t press on the bruise on his shoulder, “Everything hurts.”

 

“And you’ve been doing so well.” She sighs. All of the sudden he feels something warm pressing against his lower back, soothing the muscle pain. It’s a rock wrapped in a blanket from the fire and he presses himself closer.

 

“Really?” He asks, smiling as he feels her fingers begin to stroke his hair.

 

“Of course, little seabird. I am so proud of you.”

 

“That’s nice.” He falls asleep without his supper, to the feeling of his mother’s fingers in his hair and the sound of her voice accompanied by the crackling fire.

 

 

 

 

It doesn’t just take a couple months to learn to wield the scimitars correctly, it takes years. Years of bruises and cuts and calluses until he can wield them to some degree of proficiency. It’s gotten to the point where he can’t leave the swords anywhere, where the weight of them on his hip has become a comfort rather than a burden. He walks through their village with the swords attached to the belt around his waist, his neighbours commenting in overheard whispers about his fanciful notions of adventure and heroic deeds. Which is stupid to say at the very least; he’d never leave if his mother wasn’t coming with him.

 

So, like a bird learning to fly, he has to be pushed out of the nest instead.

 

Surprisingly, it’s not their human neighbours that are responsible for the devastation of his home. While relations with them were always tense, neither of the two groups wanted any sort of physical conflict to arise. They were content to stay away and try to forget that the others existed for as long as possible.

 

The hoard of bugbears appears in the middle of the night. He’s woken up by the sound of screams from up the hill, and before he can make a noise his mother has her hand over his mouth.

 

“Molly! You must run, Molly!” She whispers in his ear. He shouts back words of disagreement, muffled against the palm of her hand.

 

“Promise me you’ll run, little seabird. Promise me,” She begs once more. In the dark he can see the tears trailing down her face He nods his head, and she takes off, through the door and up the path to the village. His gaze immediately goes to the wall where the scimitars normally hang, only to find it empty.

 

There are only two ways up to the village, and since going up the hill is a one-way trip to possible death, he runs to the cliffside instead. Climbing comes easily to him now, and he’s able to find a small ledge in the cliffside that he can fit himself on.

 

He curls his knees up to his chest, forcing his back against the rock so hard that he can feel it dig into his spine. The spray of salt water from the ocean waves down below soak into the light cloth of his sleeping clothes, and he begins to shiver as the ocean wind whips against his body.

 

From above him, he can hear the screams of his neighbours, friends he grew up with, all gone within a single night. He doesn’t try to sleep, thinks it would be disrespectful to not be there to witness. Only by coincidence, an isolated hut, and an overprotective mother will he live to tell the tale of the village he grew up in.

 

He doesn’t climb up the rest of the way until the new dawn breaks. He makes his way up the cliff with shaking fingers, almost hesitant. He convinces himself that if he doesn’t look, everything will still be there. If he just stays on the cliff for the rest of his life, his mother will still be alive.

 

They set fire to the place, he can smell it. And as he walks closer to the building the smoke gets so strong that he has to cover his face. Many of doors into the various houses and shops are torn off their hinges, raided for any type of valuables they might have held. A pyre of chairs, tables, and other pieces of furniture burn in the middle of the square. He can tell by the smell that furniture isn’t the only thing that’s burning.

 

He finds his mother by following the trail of dead bugbears, their bodies either riddled with cuts or completely cut into pieces. She had attempted to lead them away from the others, north towards the meadow. Her body lies in the bright green grass atop a patch of honeysuckle, her blood staining the petals bright red. With the sun on her face, she looks like she could be asleep, a braid of gold thread glittering in her hair. Her scimitars are still in her hands.

 

He doesn’t cry, thinks he should but knows she wouldn’t want him to. He takes the scimitars first, attaches them to his hip, then gathers his in his arms. He had grown taller than her within the past few years, and his work from the blacksmith makes lifting her easier than he would like.

 

“C’mon, ma. Let’s go home.”

 

Even their little cabin by the sea wasn’t safe from the devastation. The cabinets have been torn through, and the beds have been overturned, but it doesn’t look like the bugbears had found anything useful. He makes the place up again: puts everything where it belongs, rolls the rug out, turns the bed back over, and even puts a fire on in the hearth. A large fire that crackles and sizzles, it's heating up the room to the point where he begins to sweat.

 

He places his mother into her bed and tucks her in. With her eyes closed, it looks like she’s asleep. That she’ll wake up at any moment.

 

He doesn’t leave for a very long time. He stays there, kneeling at her bedside, running his fingers through her hair like she used to do for him.

 

“Thank you, ma.” He whispers, voice hoarse from pulling back his tears, “Thank you, so much.”

 

He pauses for a second to swallow the bile that’s beginning to pool at the back of his throat.

 

“Now don’t you worry, I’ll get’em. I’m gonna find’em, and I’m gonna kill’em. Like you would. Just like you.”

 

His hands are shaking. He plants a kiss on her forehead. He leaves, closing the door behind him.

 

The trail points southward.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Ah, I love the smell of angst in the morning.
> 
> The title of this work comes from the song _The Cat's in the Cradle_. I always used to love that song, despite how depressing it is.
> 
> Again, this is supposed be non-canon, but it's fun to write about things that could be true, especially since we know absolutely nothing about Molly's backstory.
> 
> Also, if any of **_you_** have a theory that you want fic'ed, or if you just want to shout about our favourite purple boy, you can leave a comment here or drop an ask on my tumblr [cordsycords](http://www.cordsycords.tumblr.com).


End file.
